By Friday afternoon, I had cleaned my station twice.
I knew I was doing it to keep my hands busy.
The combs were already clean.
The towels were already folded.
The counter had no dust on it.
Still, I wiped it again.
At three thirty, Patrice arrived.
She came through the front door carrying a plain handbag and greeted me as if she were an ordinary customer.
I showed her the shampoo area behind the curtain.
She sat down where she could see the entrance without being seen from the front.
I didn't ask whether she was nervous.
I was too busy trying to control my own breathing.
The salon was quiet.
One of the other stylists had gone to pick up supplies.
The receptionist was working through a stack of appointment cards.
I checked the clock.
Three forty-five.
I went to the front window.
Cars passed on Vineville Avenue.
A delivery truck stopped at the corner.
A woman walked by carrying groceries.
Ordinary things.
I had always liked ordinary things.
They made life feel dependable.
Now I understood that ordinary life could be built on facts you had never thought to question.
At three fifty, I checked my notary stamp.
I did not pick it up.
I only made sure it was where I had left it.
Patrice had told me to be careful not to promise Dale anything improper.
I intended to follow that advice.
Whatever he brought through the door, I would not pretend a signature was genuine if I had not properly verified it.
I would not certify something simply because he called it routine.
The clock moved.
Three fifty-five.
I heard an engine outside.
I looked through the glass.
A familiar truck turned into the parking lot.
Dale's truck.
My stomach tightened.
He parked near the front entrance.
For a moment, he remained behind the wheel.
Then the passenger door opened.
Ashley stepped out.
She wore a light-colored top and carried her handbag over one shoulder.
She checked her reflection in the visor mirror before closing the door.
The ring flashed when she moved her hand.
I looked away.
Dale got out with a folder tucked under his arm.
He was wearing the sunglasses he used when he drove in bright weather.
He looked like a man coming to complete a routine errand.
That was how he had always looked when he handed me papers at home.
He never appeared worried.
He never appeared guilty.
He simply expected me to do what he asked.
I took a slow breath.
The appointment book was in the drawer beneath my towels.
Patrice was behind the curtain.
My notary certificate hung beside the mirror.
Everything was where it needed to be.
At three fifty-eight, Dale opened the front door.
The small bell above it rang.
He entered first.
Ashley followed him, still looking at her phone.
"Afternoon," Dale said.
His voice was warm and familiar.
For one strange second, I wanted to smile back.
Twenty-six years of habit rose up before I could stop it.
Then I saw the folder under his arm.
I saw the ring on Ashley's hand.
I remembered the four hundred thousand dollars.
I remembered the debts he intended to put in my name.
I remembered every Saturday I had spent cleaning a dentist's office because I believed my husband was struggling.
My smile never reached my face.
"You're here early," I said.
He glanced at the clock.
"Right on time, actually."
He walked to the counter and put the folder down.
The sound was small.
Paper against wood.
I had heard that sound at our kitchen table more times than I could count.
Dale removed his sunglasses.
He looked around the salon as if he were checking whether anyone else was present.
Ashley stood near the door.
She was tapping something into her phone.
Dale opened the folder just enough to straighten the papers inside.
"I appreciate you fitting me in," he said.
"No problem."
He looked at the certificate beside the mirror.
Then he looked at me.
I could see him trying to place something.
Perhaps it was the way I held myself.
Perhaps it was the fact that I wasn't moving toward the folder.
He cleared his throat.
"I've got a few things that need notarizing. Shouldn't take long."
I nodded toward the papers.
"I'll need to review what you've brought."
He smiled.
"Of course."
He slid the folder across the counter.
I did not touch it immediately.
Ashley looked up from her phone.
"Miss C, you're saving us a lot of trouble."
I turned toward her.
"Am I?"
She laughed lightly, assuming I was joking.
Dale didn't laugh.
He was watching me now.
I knew that look.
It was the one he used when I asked a question he hadn't expected.
He put one hand on the folder.
"These are standard business documents," he said. "Nothing complicated."
I remembered Patrice's advice.
Let him hand over the folder before you reveal what you know.
So I looked down at the papers.
I could see lines for signatures.
I could see blank spaces where information had been entered.
I could not yet tell what every page contained.
I did not pretend otherwise.
"I'll need to go through them," I said.
Dale's smile tightened.
"Naturally."
He took his hand away.
I reached for the folder.
The paper felt ordinary beneath my fingers.
That was what struck me.
There was nothing frightening about its weight.
Nothing about the plain cover suggested what might be hidden inside.
I opened it.
Dale stood across the counter.
Ashley waited near the door.
Behind the curtain, Patrice remained silent.
I lifted the first page.
And for the first time that afternoon, I stopped thinking about how to keep Dale calm.
I began thinking about how to keep myself safe.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Folder Sat Between Us Like Any Other Stack of Paper, Until Dale Realized I Was Not the Stranger He Expected
The Woman Who Kept Coming Back Every Thursday, Never Knowing How Much Her Casual Stories Were Costing Me
Part 7 of 24
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